


Candle in the Wind

by JazzyBazzy



Category: Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Goblins, Groundhog Day, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29662506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzyBazzy/pseuds/JazzyBazzy
Summary: Simon's care home is infiltrated by goblins.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Kudos: 11





	Candle in the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if anyone with the name Greenblatt reads this. It's a lovely name. Better than Tyrannus, anyway.

SIMON

I’m an idiot.

I should have noticed the goblins _before_ they got into the care home. 

Mr. Greenblatt was good to me this summer, which, I guess I did notice because no one ever turns out to be all that good in these places. Not when it comes to the social outcast with the fancy private boarding school papers. He talked to me as much as any of the other boys this summer, like he wasn’t put off by my magic or my stutter.

But now he’s been sitting with me and another boy (Jacob? Jason?), trying to explain the aging-out process, and his face is reflecting green like a pea in this other boy’s glasses, and his name is Greenblatt - I really am such an idiot.

Penny would have noticed; she’s a real mage. But I can’t let myself think about Penny. There’s no way for me to contact her, anyway. The Mage made sure of that after the two of us returned from wherever in the whole of England the bumbledrum - or whatever silly name the thing is called - dragged us away to. We made a scene, apparently. Penny was crying last I saw her.

The Mage gave me a new phone (to replace the one he destroyed) before he sent me away. It’s only got one number on it and I haven’t called to check whose it might be (It’s the Mage. I know it is, but it’s more fun to pretend, isn’t it? I’ve nothing else to do, do I?).

I won’t call the Mage over this.

He’ll either ignore my call (he’s good at avoiding me when he wants to) or he’ll tell me what spells I ought to cast, tell me it would do me good to practice. Except I can’t cast a spell to save my life, can I? I’ve hardly ever had a single one go well.

And I don’t practice in the summer _because_ I’m shit at it. Practicing when no one’s around who knows what the hell I’m doing, where someone (Jacob here and the other boys, then maybe anyone outside - we are in the middle of London, after all) could get hurt isn’t something I’ve ever had interest in trying.

The Mage can’t tell me what to do if I don’t call him, so I won’t.

I’m going to slice and dice this green bastard. Like cabbage. Or green peppers. I like peppers.

“Simon?” I know I’ve been caught staring at the other boy when Mr. Greenblatt calls my name, but I don’t think he knows I was looking at his reflection. He smiles kindly (I wonder what happened to the real Mr. Greenblatt. Probably not something I want to think about it right now.).

“Are you alright, son? Jackson” - oh, so not Jacob or Jason but I was close - “asked if he could send the paperwork back to us after finding a more permanent housing arrangement. We would prefer to get what paperwork you can fill out sooner rather than later - today, if possible. And so I was asking you, Simon, have you decided on a place to stay after your school graduation?”

“School?” Jackson isn’t too shy to ask. “Are you going to university?”

I don’t think I’ve ever talked to Jackson. Can’t remember the last time I opened my mouth in front of any of the boys to say anything other than ‘thank you’ to the staff who make our food. But it would be weird to stay quiet now - suspicious. So I mumble a bit.

“Not university. I go to a boarding school.”

“What, like a private school?” He takes me not answering him for a yes and snorts. “How much does that cost you? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of an orphan going to private school before - oh no, hold on, I have.” 

I don’t read much but I know what’s coming next. 

“You’re just like Harry Potter.”

I’m less like Harry Potter than he will be when I smash his head into the table and leave a bloody scar on his forehead.

The goblin is speaking up for me now, which reminds me I have to do him in while I’ve still got the advantage.

To get my sword to appear, there’s a spell. It’s a very pretty pledge the mage taught me when he first made me his heir: In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good.

I have it memorized better than anything else. And I was really proud of myself for that when I finally got it down. The Mage said I should have been able to do it sooner. He also said it was because of my being raised in care that I didn’t: So why does he always send me back here?

The thing is, the Sword of Mages (it’s got a name, the sword) doesn’t care who wields it. It doesn’t care who I cut down, either. Innocent, weak, mighty, whatever, it’s just a sword.

The Mage likely knows that too. He must not know I know it, though. I make a point of reciting the whole damn pledge in front of him, when we’re out on his missions - stalking and killing, mostly. 

The truth is I haven’t needed the pledge in a long time.

With a twist of my hand under the table (left hand because Jackson is on my right and I can use either hand just as well - another thing the Mage doesn’t know about me), the sword appears, silver edge pointed at Greenblatt’s crotch.

I’ve tried casting spells with the sword before. Penny said it would be more convenient than having to hold both the sword and the wand the Mage gave me (a chopstick looking thing that’s currently buried in a bag full of leprechaun gold under one of the beds in a room upstairs). Well it doesn’t work. Or it does, but no better than the wand.

I don’t need it to.

“I’m _not_ like Harry Potter, mate.” I blurt out.

I can tell my timing was off. Both Jackson and the goblin stare at me. I almost flush. But I’m about to slice one of them open and leave the other with a memory that (while incredibly violent) is not technically magical, meaning none of the mages (the Mage himself nor the council members) will have any reason to rid him of it. For once, it doesn’t so much matter what they think.

I’m grinning before I can stop myself.

“I don’t use magic.”

I swing my arm in an arch over my head, where my other hand comes up to meet it before plowing the sword into the goblin’s seat. Our paperwork flies. He’s jumped from the spot, eyes wide, but not as shocked as Jackson. Jackson _screams_.

I step up on the table, putting myself between the two of them before I lunge, pinning the goblin to the wall by his shoulder. I’ve kept my grin, for the most part, and now the goblin’s visibly green lips are curling up to match mine.

“What’s this, son?” He says through razor sharp teeth, “Did you finally catch on?”

“How long?” I ask, not sure how to word my question. It’s fine, he gets it.

“Oh, the entire time you’ve been here. At a certain point, I thought you knew.” As he talks, Jackson grabs my arms like he thinks he’s going to wrestle me for the sword.

“Are you an actual lunatic?” Jackson shouts. I guess that’s the only way he’ll think to explain all this. I turn my grin on him and crash our heads together. He flops to the floor, clutching his face.

The goblin struggles against the sword, tearing the gash in his shoulder further. I drag the sword down, tearing into his torso. He screams louder than Jackson did.

Someone’s bound to check in on us, now. It’s supposed to be a private meeting sort of room but there’s no chance it’s sound proofed. There’s cracks in the door wide enough to give a good view of the kitchen, across the hall.

I pull the sword from the goblin’s gut. I’m working slower than I should, leaving him too much time to scream, to run, to take Jackson hostage maybe. But I have to ask questions. If I don’t use any spells, the Mage’s next question will be what information did you collect, Simon, and the answer cannot be none.

“Are you alone?” I ask just as one of the volunteers from the front office slips in. I’m about to shout at her to run (Would she have listened to the chavvy kid carving up her boss anyway?) when her skin suddenly shines like an unripe tomato and she jumps on my back. Two hands on my skull, she’s trying to snap it off my neck when I spin, slamming her against Mr. Greenblatt. My sword finds its way through her arm, which lands with a thud next to Jackson. He screams again.

The goblins are both talking; to each other, to me, I don’t know. Jackson is screaming louder than anything else.

Taking the sword up in both hands, I close my eyes and slash horizontally across their necks. The bodies they stole melt into something like what I guess they once were. And I leave before Jackson’s rapid breathing escalates to more screaming. Or before anyone else can join in.

I’ll tell the Mage it was just Mr. Greenblatt. Don’t want him to send me back to kill more of them.

Neither of the kitchen staff notice me. The boys in the dining room are all distracted with breakfast. I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor. I pass a kid crying on the second landing. If I weren’t covered in thick green blood I might have stopped. Probably would have called Mr. Greenblatt, actually. But as things are, I’m the one who wants to cry.

I’ll tell the Mage I used a perception spell to figure out he was a goblin. Penny will know one.

I fetch my duffel bag (As long as it’s in the bag, the gold is charmed to appear like laundry to normals, but it weighs as much as a bag full of coins should.) and check the time on the clock in the hall - just past seven. Still early - I was supposed to eat breakfast and go - but I’m not waiting here to kill more goblins. 

I’ll tell the Mage I used a truth spell on Mr. Greenblatt. I wonder if he’ll believe I could pull that off. I might leave it out. I’ll say I talked to him. And I got confirmation of the Mage’s theory that the goblins have decided the one to kill me is to become their king.

I push up the window at the end of the hall and slip out onto the roof. I can see the station already.

Maybe it’s not too soon to let myself think about school. Watford. My last year.

I wonder if Baz is there yet.


End file.
